In muddy mouthed Portsea Creek unwatched
forgotten ships lay beached
dashed and smashed
breathless, cut and bled
picked and broken
by the dockside stooping crane’s bill collecting scrap.
Their final passages over shallows
barnacle crusted bottoms
scraping over shingle
pulled and pushed
by impatient tugs
who know falling tides suckling mud claim tows.
Robbed by landsman
written out of registers
deserted bridges balefully glare
untold memories of purposed lives
men who swore repeatedly
like lovers on heat trumpeting union of engine and steel.
Now their ghosts can be heard
reliving purpose in the night
blowing base horns
turning their screws seaward
blending rusted hulls to the sea and the never-ending sky.
*Portsea creek and its cutting divides the city of Portsmouth from the Hampshire mainland.
Tony is a seasoned traveller; a computer analyst, seaman, shaman, and a complementary alternative therapist. He is a writer of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. In his own words – Life is real only then when I am. Please visit his blog Mine Quick Voice of Aquarius to read more of his work.
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